The Painting in Your Living Room
You fell in love, somewhere around 1940
back when he would wear that blue vest and you would wear your pink sunhat;
and he’s your soulmate, your other half.
Together you built a home,
wooden and sturdy like the old canoe you shared.
Together you built a life,
flowing like the widening river and rooted like the overhanging trees.
Together you built a family,
brimming with talented craftsmen and artists who pass along their elders' skills.
Beth, your only daughter, painted you several paintings, each to match the old house
where everyone grew akin to the long grasses along the bank.
You’ve thrown out the old, blue furniture;
the new loveseats are fair, faint, and flowery.
She wordlessly provides what you need to live in harmony again,
as you’ve done for her all her life.
The strokes are soft and careful,
were you the same on your children?
The colors are patient and serene,
is that how your grandkids remember you?
The aged frame is callous and firm,
did you end up that way too?
‘No,’ your dear husband would tell you
from across that long, solid boat.
Do not forget, while the water may look like a mirror,
the reflection staring back is falsely thwarted.
‘It is not like you.’
With time, the painting will fade in your youngest’s own sunny living room.
The couches, inherited along with the art, are worn and torn
from family dogs and growing children.
But with time, comes love.
Your memories sit in the cushions,
your soul wraps us up in your quilts,
and your betrothed love floats beyond the vintage film of your child’s work.
Rm5205B, Bed 2 to Bed 1
Dedicated to Kasey Watkins
I find myself wishing for a lot of things,
yet wishing is a peculiar concept.
I wish we had more time together;
I wish we took advantage of what we did have.
It all feels utterly hopeless, doesn’t it?
I wish I had met you earlier and we went to football games together;
I wish we had marched together, beating drums and beating hearts.
There’s a cloud of regret that won’t quite regress.
It’s odd that something as magical as a wish
can be so despondent.
But there’s also an ambitious side of wishing,
the kind which kids spend their days in deparation for;
clinging to each star in the sky and ice cube in the toilet.
I wish we’ll be able to see each other often and never forget each others’ voices;
I wish we can live together again, maybe in a year —maybe in many.
I don’t know if it’ll happen, there’s never a guarantee,
but try as I might and wish as I will.
I wish this moment in time could last forever like your polaroids;
I wish to never overlook the fond times we’ve had.
Somewhere out there, there’s another inkling
of mystical luck out there for us.
The problem lies in that unfulfilled promise,
a wish is not binding, as much as I wish it was.
Instead, it’s a call for hope, a pledge of optimism.
If that’s all I may grant, I shall.
So, dear friend, if I may be able to do nothing else,
I wish you a merry christmas
and a happy new year.
My Mire
Dedicated to Liam Ginter
The large brown capped mushroom sits,
flat topped with curled, almost fluffy edges,
sheltering a mossy frog’s keen gaze.
And just below that, rests your smile.
You carry an aroma like wet grass
a small bit ‘ways from a river’s bay.
The first sign of a crisp new day,
fresh with your can-dew attitude,
The confidence you carry is like a snail,
stretching from one branch to the next
seeming a little too far apart, but
I know you’ll conquer this, just like the last.
Your presence is like a backwood bog,
enveloped in waterlogged woods.
You are where I go when I say,
“I know a spot.”
Taste of Sweetness
Katy and I crept into the cool kitchen,
away from the afternoon sun shining through towering windows behind the couch.
She snuck an arm into the blue cupboards, a feat I could not complete alone.
We quietly collected from the kitchen: A bowl, a spoon, and vanilla ice cream,
before we returned to the beige carpet of the living room Blake laid upon, big kind eyes closed.
Her long finger rose to her smile as she gently sat by the boy,
then the stout beagle curiously walked over, looking tiny compared to the imposing open room.
Sitting by Snoot’s whipping tail, we held a comradery for our slighted size against the two teens.
Blake hummed sleepily, unaware of the chaos to come.
Katy scooped some ice cream out of the tub, catching the dog’s snuffling nose,
before she handed it to me and pointed at her boyfriend’s placid face.
As I spilled the sweet treat on his face, she held his arms down,
and then the dog attacked, his weapon a warm tongue.
This same onslaught continued through the careful thrashing and harsh giggling.
If anyone passed, they wouldn’t even blink an eye at this exchange, as it was their norm:
fond faces, doting deeds, and minding mischief.
He lays in the sun, covered in comfort,
as she spreads ice cream on his face for the dog to enjoy,
all the while, laughing.
Halloween Spells
Four chatty teenagers walking two by two,
broodish clothing and glittering rocks donned by all,
trudging boots and solid, squishing stomps.
A cold pond they trek dutifully along,
the full tender moon watching with distant care,
darkness closing in on their flickering flashlights.
A hidden fairy circle they come to sit in,
cattails gently bristle as they gingerly band around,
unkempt grass wet and musty beneath them.
Each youth gathers their thoughts rhymically,
opening bottles with sticky residue along the sides,
sprinkling in spices and other ingredients with soft clinks.
Crickets chirp and water sloshes in a hazy nature song,
affirming prayers and coveting murmurs blow over ignored,
candles crackle as patient wax seals their foretold fates.
Maybelline
My skin is erased
from the harsh bathroom lights
and its reflective ally.
Face falling, I need to get ready
to rest.
The makeup wipe tugs out
of the packaging quite easily.
Cool against the lids,
frostbite burns every
patch of skin touched.
My black appendages disappear
with a sturdy swoop.
The baggage is over the weight limit
for a moment,
but that is gone with a flick, too.
The contacts, so carefully placed,
slid around and back
as I scrubbed at my own paint.
Once it was gone, I could
rest.
My eyes are naked
without their capes and covers,
but I can sleep without a mask.
I put it on for myself, I say,
yet where is its lover
when I am alone.
The Lazy River
Heavy fog cleared
from my bathroom.
“I’m coming down,”
I whispered to the tile
surrounding.
Warmth and water patted
on my wavering form
as my eyes fell
once again.
I felt naive again.
My smallness enveloped
in a welcoming calm;
yet it pulled me along
on its infinite curving journey.
I knew colorful structures,
round and taut donuts, and
chemically perfected waters
surrounded.
But I open my eyes,
and there’s shampoo.
Drove Off
“20.12 is your total.”
The driver’s hat of hair
bounce in practiced
understanding.
Our forever wait snaps by,
the window opens and
she takes my card.
I feel confident and clear
as two sage drink
Are passed to me.
They look like witch’s brew
and taste it, too.
As I lower the straw in,
the world tuned out
with the groaning screech of plastic.
Someone spills their cup
on my oil canvas vision
as I take a drink and swirl.
Looking up in panic
for our dear forgotten food,
I realize we’ve not moved.
Only has the fog
waved back in.
Grimace Never Looked So Down
Your order is short and sweet,
“alright, you can pull up.”
Easy enough.
My attention turns from the
black and bruising headset
to the window beside me.
The car rolls up slowly and reveals
You.
The card is handed over shamefully
as your eyes sprint from my own,
like a child running to hide from its parents
as if that will stop their dooming ordain.
The hot tears flooding the dam
just under your vision
make the cool night sharpened
with crippling contrast,
multiplying my shivers.
I should do something–
talk to you or brighten your day,
but it can’t be a simple first job.
I return your card and receipt,
You drive forwards, gone.
Easy enough.
Woeful Wisdom
White walls close in around me,
too bright lights above seem only further away,
faint buzzing emits from above and down the hall.
The dull blue chair is the only color,
besides my own turquoise clothes.
Even the window presents itself blank with snow.
My body is laid back yet stiff
My eyes stay up yet wandering
My arm is tense yet numbing.
Nurses tell me to count back from ten.
Icy cold flows through me, eventually weighing down my eyes.
I wake as soon as I fall asleep.
My mouth feels empty,
Despite my new cotton jaws filling
with Crimson.
My body does not feel familiar, it’s been tossed
and replaced.
Stumbling to the car
insisting on my clarity,
I fight my mother, the nurse, and my tears
as I reconcile with my lost self
in those troublesome bones.